Call 1-800-FANTASIES
by AlfieMoore
Summary: Sherlock is a phone sex operator, and he's John's guilty pleasure.


**Johnlock sexy times ensue in this story. If you're not into M/M parings, or John x Sherlock, or you're under the legal viewing age in your state and/or are offended by this material, please do not read. **

**Disclaimer: All characters used in this story are over 18 years of age, and belong to BBC1, and Steven Moffat, along with Mark Gatiss. **

John knew this was wrong.

He was sitting in his bed, his wife was at the shops, and he had the number for a phone sex hotline dialed. All he had to do was press call. Although he couldn't because this was _wrong._ He had a wife. Hell, John loved his wife, he really did. Mary was absolutely stunning, and hilarious, and a pretty good shag, (although he would never admit it to her because that would give her a confidence boost she didn't need.) He just needed something more. Something Mary couldn't give him, and he couldn't describe it any more than that. But this is wrong, this is so very, very wrong. And yet, he pressed the call button anyway. It rang a couple of times, and John considered hanging up when a voice answered, "Hello?" It was a man's voice, as smooth as caramel and deep, deeper than John could have imagined for a bloke to have. It was actually kind of attractive and-no. John, stop this. You're straight.

"A-Are you a bloke?" John stuttered, and it's not like he was nervous or anything. He wasn't nervous, he was pissed. So very, very pissed and not turned on by this guy in the least bit.

"Stunning deduction, that." The bloke answered. He was British, and, judging by his accent, John would guess he was from London. Central London, born and raised, most likely, which was very bad because John was from London. He lived right next to Baker Street, right in the middle of London. Loads of people lived in London though, and it's highly unlikely that he would ever meet the phone sex operator with the deep voice, and telling himself that relaxed John a little bit. He still wasn't relaxed at all, though.

"I'm not gay." He said quietly, as if Mary would be able to hear him from Tesco's, and Tesco's wasn't even that far away. What if Mary came home by then and-nope, nope, this was a very bad idea. John was just about to hang up when the deep voiced phone sex operator chuckled darkly, and John was turned on just a little. So, he decided to stay on the line. If only to explain to this guy, that he defiantly was _not_ turned on by, that he was straight. And that John was defiantly not turned on by him.

"Sure you're not, darling. I'm only wearing pants, nothing else. Your voice is so commanding, and I am so turned on by you. Tell me, what's your name, honey? I want to scream it out when I come." The voice said, breathing hitched and John had to sit back in his bed to regain his composure. The bed that he shared with his wife. The wife he was in love with. He was _not _in love with this guy.

"Watson. That's all you're getting. What's yours?" John asked, trying to stay as casual as he could while having phone sex with a bloke, while his wife was no more than five bloody minutes away, probably buying condoms for them to have sex later that night. But it was so worth it to his companion sigh lightly and shift a little and, how could it be legal for someone to sound that hot over a phone. How?

"Watson. Going by last names, are we? I'm Holmes, then. Sherlock Holmes." The guy, Sherlock, he had a name, said with a smirk. John could practically hear his smirk. (Was cocky the right word to use in this situation? John was going to, anyway.) Sherlock moaned softly, and that moan could do things to his body that John was ashamed of. John cussed out whatever deity he still believed in, (and he may have stuck a hand down his trousers. Maybe.) "I'm so hard, Watson, just thinking of you. I've been waiting for you all day, Watson, please, just fuck me."

"Yeah." John said, a little breathlessly, because again, how is it legal for someone to sound that hot over a phone. It shouldn't be. John should sue Sherlock Holmes and make a law against it, but then Sherlock made a little noise, almost like a whimper, and John stopped thinking all together. "Yeah, I could do that. Are you from London?" Sherlock wasn't saying anything of where he was located, but his accent was familiar. Sherlock's little whimpers and moans were getting closer together, and this guy obviously wasn't wanking. Which meant that he was pretending and, fuck, this guy was a good actor. John momentarily wondered what he would actually sound like if John was touching him, fucking him, wrecking him. No, bad thoughts, John reminded himself, you are not into this guy.

"Watson, oh please, oh God." Sherlock was gasping out his last name every few seconds and, upon realizing that he was completely one hundred percent screwed, he dropped his hand into his pants and began wanking to Sherlock Holmes, a gay, British phone sex operator that John may have been a little bit obsessed with and he didn't even care. Not when Sherlock was moaning into his ear like that, and this would forever be used as fantasy material. Sherlock gave a little high whimper, and this his voice broke, and John knew that he was gone. And a couple of minutes later, after John came and Sherlock hung up with a smile John could practically see over the phone wires and a cheery call of, "Thank you for calling Fantasies, have a nice day!" and a pre-recorded message was played to tell John how much his call cost, (which was quite a lot), John knew he was screwed.

And that this was terribly wrong.

(And that he needed to call back as soon as possible.)


End file.
